


easier to bear

by parsnipit



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Fluff, Insecurity, M/M, Soft Ending, Valentine's Day, forgets he already is, fortunately gaster is there to remind him, grillby wants so badly to be a good husband that sometimes he, or at least a
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22948168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsnipit/pseuds/parsnipit
Summary: Grillby wants nothing more than to celebrate the perfect Valentine's Day with his husband. It's only what Gaster deserves, after all. Unfortunately, things are rarely that simple, especially when he wakes up with old, sour misery aching in his chest. One series of failures later and he's left starkly reminded of how flawed and simple andboringhe is in the light of Gaster's glory. Gaster can't take that feeling from him, but he can, at the very least, make it easier to bear.(And that's exactly what he plans to do, once Grillby stops being sostubborn.)
Relationships: W. D. Gaster/Grillby
Comments: 5
Kudos: 75





	easier to bear

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: insecurities, self-loathing
> 
> this was a little something i wrote to celebrate valentine's day over on my [tumblr!](https://parsnipit.tumblr.com/) it was essentially a choose-your-own-adventure story featuring grillster! i left the choices in the fic for posterity; the ones everyone decided on are in italics.

Grillby wakes up with a sick, queasy hole in the pit of his chest—the parting gift of a nightmare whose fragments drip away from him even now. He knows better than to try to put those fragments back together. Several slow, deep breaths later, he starts to feel better. There’s a nervous prickle down his back that he can’t quite shake, though, and he gets the feeling today is going to be one of the bad ones. He exhales a curl of bleak gray smoke and wonders how long he can get away with just...laying here.

Not very long, he realizes, when he picks up his phone. It’s Valentine’s Day. Gaster has already texted him approximately ninety messages full of kissy faces and heart emojis.

Shit.

Grillby groans into his pillow, then gives himself a vigorous shake. Wallowing around isn’t going to do him any good, tempting as it is—and besides, Grillby has to make this a good day for Gaster. He deserves it, and Valentine’s Day is one of his favorite holidays. Dramatic displays of affection make him positively giddy, even if Grillby isn’t the best at them. (Isn’t even good at them. Isn’t even adequate, really.)

After another brief moment of self-indulgent wallowing, Grillby rolls out of bed and rubs the sleep from his eyes. He smooths out the blankets, tucks them _just so_ around the mattress, and then begins pulling on his clothes. Downstairs, he can hear the clamor of pots and pans as Gaster makes breakfast. The cheerful voices of their children rise about the clamor, then drop off into giggles. Grillby’s chest feels a little bit lighter, listening to that. He has a family. He isn’t alone. People love him.

Even so, his soul aches in unreachable places.

Once he’s dressed, he heads downstairs. Papyrus squeals before he’s even made it down the first two steps. “Papa’s up Papa’s up Papa’s up!”

“Yes, Papa’s up,” Gaster says, amused. “Go say hello.”

His children stampede into the living room, swarming around his legs as he descends. He ruffles his hands over their heads, greeting them each warmly. “Good morning, little ones,” he says. “How are you all?”

“Awesome,” Papyrus says decisively, stretching his arms above his head. Grillby scoops him up, propping him on his hip as he heads for the kitchen. 

“We don’t have to go to school today, so I’m already _fantastic,”_ Fuku agrees, sparking in delight. 

“See, what I don’t understand is why we had to get up on time if we’re not going to school.” Sans stumbles along behind them, yawning. “I should be asleep right now. I demand justice.”

“Well, I can’t give you justice, but would you accept pancakes as a substitute?” Gaster offers, sliding a plateful of bright pink pancakes onto the kitchen table.

Sans slouches into his seat, dragging the plate towards himself. “Hmm. I guess that’s a fair trade.”

“Glad to hear it, sweetheart,” Gaster says, looking fondly at Sans before whirling around to face Grillby. “And good morning to you, sunshine! Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day to you too.” Grilly bumps their foreheads together affectionately, and Papyrus pats Gaster’s chest. “Pancakes, huh?”

 _“Pink_ pancakes, even. Yours are on the table.”

“What about you?”

“Ah, I already ate mine. I told Matrissa I’d meet her at the lab at nine, so I’ve gotta run soon.” He steps back, fumbling to untie Grillby’s apron. Grillby reaches forward to help him, deftly unwinding the knots. “I’ll be back in time for dinner, though, and then Ipera is coming to watch the children for us. We’re still on for date night?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Grillby assures him, hanging the apron next to the oven.

“Awesome.” Gaster beams at him, darting forward to press a kiss to his temple. “In that case, I’m gonna skedaddle. Children, behave for your papa. I love you all very much.”

“Bye-bye,” Papyrus says, waving enthusiastically enough to whack Grillby in the chest more than once.

“See ya, pops,” Sans says through a mouthful of pancake. “Love you.”

Fuku crackles warmly. “Yeah, we love you too, Dad! Have a good day at work.”

Once Gaster has gone, Grillby slides into his seat at the table and sets Papyrus in his highchair. He eats his own pancakes in between offering Papyrus bites and holding a conversation with Sans and Fuku, who are _ecstatic_ about the holiday (mostly because they’re out of school and Dad promised them each a metric ton of chocolate).

“So,” Sans says, peering at Grillby over his glass of chocolate milk, “what are you and Dad doing for date night this time?”

“I don’t know, actually.”

“You don’t know?” Sans arches a bonebrow.

“Your dad wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Awww.” Fuku props her face in her hands, grinning at him. “That’s adorable. I bet he’s taking you somewhere _special.”_

“Oooh, like Charlemagne’s restaurant,” Sans suggests.

“Or that new museum in the capital,” Fuku says.

“Or the new cave excavation! I hear they’ve found some really cool rocks there. That would be romantic, right?”

“What about a picnic?”

“A picnic _in_ the cave?”

“A picnic with food from Charlemagne’s _in the cave!”_

“Yes that’s gotta be it!” Sans says, beaming and holding his hand up. Fuku high-fives him enthusiastically. “Mystery solved, Papa.”

“Oh,” Grillby says, already mildly overwhelmed. “Good.”

“So what are you doing for him?” Fuku asks.

“I, um.” Grillby rubs the back of his neck. He’s thought about it, of course, but he has yet to reach a decision, although he _has_ managed to narrow it down. It’s just—well, nothing feels right. (More aptly, everything feels _wrong._ It’s just been that sort of a week, and this day is the worst yet.) What _should_ he do for Gaster? 

* * *

**option a — >** Cook him something special! Gaster loves Grillby’s cooking, after all. He could make little heart cookies, or chocolate-covered strawberries, or truffles, or something _special._ Gaster’s got one helluva sweet tooth, and he’d be sure to appreciate it. (Besides, it’s just about the only thing Grillby’s good at, right?)

_**option b — >** Make a blown glass sculpture! Gaster loves shiny things. He is, for all intents and purposes, a very large and ridiculous raven. A handmade gift—and a shiny one, at that—would be sure to please him. (After all, Grillby doesn’t want him getting bored, and cooking’s pretty boring, even if it’s...well, even if it’s really the only thing Grillby’s confident in. But someone as intelligent as Gaster is bound to find the same old thing a little stale after so many years, isn’t he?) _

* * *

“I’m going to try making him something,” Grillby admits, fiddling with his fork. “Actually, how do you guys feel about heading down to Waterfall for a little while after breakfast?”

Fuku makes a face. Sans agrees enthusiastically. Papyrus decides to throw his spoon across the kitchen with a squeal of absolute delight.

After breakfast, they clear the table and wash the dishes, and Grillby dresses Papyrus as Sans and Fuku bound upstairs to change out of their pajamas. Once they’re all ready, Grillby props Papyrus on his hip, hitches his carrier bag over his shoulder, and heads outside with Sans and Fuku close on his heels. The two of them chatter merrily with each other as they walk, and Papyrus, too, is full of input—albeit only about three-quarters of which is understandable.

When they reach Waterfall, Grillby pulls Fuku’s raincoat out of his inventory and helps her zip it into place. He tugs his own raincoat on next, then opens his umbrella. Fuku and Sans run ahead of him, splashing in the puddles and giggling at the echoes their voices make. Grillby brings them to a stop near the edge of the river, kneeling to examine the bank. Farther from the water, it’s made of the same dark, solid limestone; as he edges closer to the water, however, it begins to fade into fine, crumbling rock—and then, finally, into sand. It’s dark sand, coarse and rough, but for what Grillby has in mind, it will work perfectly.

...leastways, it will if Grillby can actually manage to pull it off.

“Alright,” he says, taking a seat a few feet away from the river and setting Papyrus down next to him. “Sans, Fuku, can you keep an eye on Papyrus for me? I’m going to be busy for just a few moments.”

“What are you doing?” Sans asks, leaning against Grillby’s back and peering over his shoulder. 

“Something neat, I should hope. You’ll see.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Oh, not really, although it may get a little warm. You remember what I’ve told you about white flames?”

“Don’t touch.”

“Very good. Remember that and you’ll be fine—well, and mind you don’t fall into the river, either. I could hardly save you.”

Sans flashes him a thumbs-up, then whisks Papyrus up and carries him a little farther from the river. Grillby’s grateful for that—water around his family makes him nervous, even if he knows perfectly well that three-fourths of them won’t be injured by it. 

“Can I help?” Fuku asks. “Is it a fire thing?”

“It is a fire thing, but I think I’m going to try this alone, first. I’ve never done it before, so I wouldn’t know how to instruct you,” Grillby says, a touch apologetically. “If I can manage this, I’ll try and teach you how to do it, too. Deal?”

“Deal,” Fuku says, nodding earnestly before heading back towards her brothers.

Grillby settles more comfortably in the sand, pulling the hood of his raincoat up over his head before rolling up his sleeves. Raindrops splatter along his forearms, but most of them evaporate before they reach his core, and they ones that _do_ manage to reach barely sting. Besides, he figures his hands are going to be warm enough to scald off a much heavier downpour than _this_ in a few moments.

Taking a deep breath, Grillby reaches out and scoops up a handful of sand. He cradles it gently in his palms, and then he begins to heat it. For the first few moments, as he focuses on concentrating his energy, nothing happens. Then, as his hands begin to glow white-hot, the sand grows brittle and glossy. It’s not _quite_ hot enough, though. He narrows his eyes, stretching for more of his magic, pouring it into his flames as forcefully as he can. The sand slumps in his palms, melts into a malleable, translucent goo that seeps through his fingers. 

The surge of victory that he feels is small, but by the gods, it’s good.

Quickly, Grillby begins to mold. He knows exactly what he’s going to make—he only hopes he can get his useless hands to _make_ it. For several long minutes he works in silence, and the momentary victory he had begun to feel is rapidly chipped away at by his frustration. This just isn’t turning out the way he wants it to. Of _course_ it isn’t turning out the way he wants it to. He isn’t good at this! He isn’t good at new things, at creativity, at spontaneity. He should have just cooked. Maybe Gaster would have bored, but at least he’d be _pleased,_ right? At this rate, Grillby’s only going to be gifting him a useless lump of glass.

Grillby’s chest aches. His throat feels tight.

Miserable, he lets the heat fade from his hands. Once the glass has cooled enough to solidify, he turns his stupid little sculpture around, examining it. It’s...recognizable, he supposes, but that’s it. It’s certainly no work of art. He had fashioned it after a raven, complete with gangly legs, a sharp beak, and an inquisitively-cocked head. It only vaguely resembles the image he had in his mind. Gods, it’s disappointing. What the hell is he supposed to do with _this_ garbage?

* * *

**_option a — > _ ** _Cram it into his pocket, never look at it again, and go back to the house. If he hurries, maybe he can scramble to whip up a palatable meal by the time Gaster gets home. At least that’s something he can be vaguely proud of. Maybe it’ll even nurse a little confidence back into his soul before his day is completely ruined._

**option b** —> Throw the ugly thing into the river, never look at it again, and try a second time. He has to be able to do better than this. He has to _be_ better than, for Gaster. Gaster doesn’t deserve someone boring and mopey, someone who _quits_ after the first failure. Gaster would never quit after the first failure—or, hell, after the hundredth. Maybe Grillby should take a page from his book, buckle down, and try to make something better than this, no matter how much effort it takes.

* * *

Grillby exhales a waft of dark smoke, cramming the little glass raven into the pocket of his jeans before straightening up. Right. This was an absolute and merciless failure, but maybe the day is still salvageable. “What’d you make?” Sans asks, trotting along beside him as they head back for Snowdin. “Can I see it?”

“Oh, no, it’s not that good. Just practice for another time, I suppose.”

“But I still wanna _see_ it,” Sans says, frowning. “I—”

“Wait, hang on, look—there’s the Nice Cream Man. I bet if you hurry, you can catch him, and I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

Sans squints suspiciously at him, but does hurry along to greet the Nice Cream Man, Papyrus’ hand wrapped snugly in his. Fuku, on the other hand, hangs back. “Hey,” she says, and he glances nervously at her. “Are you okay?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

“You sure? Because you don’t seem okay.”

“I’m just frustrated, that’s all,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “This day isn’t turning out the way I want it to.”

She reaches forward, catching his hand and squeezing it gently. “Hey, it’ll get better. Don’t worry. You know what’ll cheer you up?”

“What?”

“Nice Cream!” She hauls him forward, sparking brightly, and he laughs and follows in her wake. He buys them all nice cream, and he feels the tiniest bit lighter as he eats his own (vanilla—plain, boring, relatable) and listens to his children chatter merrily. Once they’re back home, he gets to work. It’s a bit of a rushed job, since he wasted so much time at the river, but it’s—well, it’s something. He ends up with a plateful of heart-shaped cookies (lovingly iced by his children), a platter of cherry cordials, and a pan of red velvet cinnamon rolls. He finishes just in time, too. As soon as he’s dabbing the last of the icing onto the cinnamon rolls, the front door flies open.

“I’m home!” Gaster shouts merrily, and the children squeal and rush him. He’s knocked back outside by the force of their hugs, and Grillby burns a little more warmly, listening to them all laugh. He wipes his hands off on his apron, then unties it and hangs it next to the oven. As he does, Gaster claws his way through their tangle of children and into the kitchen. “Oho, what have we here, Mr. Grillby?”

“Your regularly-scheduled Valentine’s day snacks,” Grillby says, bobbing in a little mimicry of a bow. Gaster’s eyes sparkle, and he hovers over the table with all the excitement of a child surveying their Gyftmas presents. It’s good to see him so happy, even though Grillby still gets the nagging feeling he could have done better. That feeling aches, low and sore, in his chest. 

“Stars, everything looks wonderful,” Gaster says, giving his hands a vigorous flap of delight. “I can’t wait to eat it! Thank you very much, lovely.”

“You should eat it now,” Sans says, climbing up Gaster’s back and propping his chin on his father’s shoulder, “so we can join you.”

“Well, if I simply must sacrifice for the good of the children—” Gaster snags a cinnamon roll. Taking that as their cue, Fuku, Sans, and Papyrus also dig into the sweets. Stars, it’s like a feeding a pack of ravenous wolves. Grillby watches fondly, taking a seat at the table and propping his face in his hands. He nibbles one of the cookies, but he doesn’t want to spoil his appetite, especially if they’re—as Sans and Fuku had declared earlier—going to be eating Charlemange’s for dinner. 

...he should be excited about that, shouldn’t he? Hrm.

Gaster compliments his cooking enthusiastically, and with a full mouth, as he always does. Grillby doesn’t doubt he means the compliments, either. Grillby _knows_ his cooking is good, and he knows Gaster enjoys it. It’s just—well, this is _good,_ but it isn’t _perfect,_ and Gaster deserves perfect, doesn’t he? When has Grillby ever been what he deserved?

Oh, gods, he needs to stop moping. This is supposed to be a happy day! This is a celebration of the _love of his life._ Wallowing around like this is bullshit. He should…

* * *

_**option a— > ** Stay quiet and seek physical comfort as discretely as possible. He’s afraid if he talks for too long, he’ll let something slip that might make Gaster suspicious. Gaster is creepily perceptive when he wants to be, and Grillby wants to guard his emotions jealously, at the moment. Besides, a hug from Gaster makes everything bad in the world stop, especially if Gaster kisses his temple and does the little scritches at the back of his neck and mmm— _

**option b— > ** Ask Gaster where they’re going tonight. He’ll have to be careful not to let anything slip that sounds too _mopey_ or Gaster will be all over him, prying his emotions out of their little, carefully-compartmentalized boxes. Despite that risk, however, a little conversation with Gaster and all of his enthusiastic glory usually goes a long way towards making Grillby feel better. Besides, as long as he’s focused on someone or something else, he has less time to focus on himself and his own ugly feelings. 

* * *

Yeah. Yeah, Grillby should—he should be quiet. He’s really good at that, huh? So, once his family have had their fill of snacking, he sweeps away the plates and stacks them all neatly next to the sink before returning to the table. 

“That was _wonderful,_ sparkles,” Gaster says, beaming at him. Grillby flickers a fond smile back in his direction, leaning down to butt their heads together. As he’d hoped, Gaster’s arms come up to snake around his neck, hugging him close. A soft skeleton kiss gets clicked across his temple, and Gaster purrs warmly at him. “You’re my favorite.”

Grillby sinks his weight against Gaster, humming happily and burrowing into the crook of his throat. Gaster trails his fingers across the nape of Grillby’s neck, sending pleasant shivers down his spine. Everything bad grates to a halt, for the briefest of moments, and he’s warm and secure and safe in his skeleton’s arms. He belongs. He feels _right,_ here, held snugly against Gaster. He feels a little less like the miserable, boring, mopey elemental he is so very often nowadays.

...then Papyrus squeals and clambers in between them, climbing into Gaster’s lap. Gaster laughs and releases Grillby, peppering Papyrus’ face in tiny skeleton kisses and squeezing him close. “Hi, buddy,” he coos. “Hi, how are you? Were you good for Papa today? Were you a good boy?”

“The goodest,” Grillby says.

“We went to Waterfall,” Sans says, and Grillby’s soul drops out of his chest. 

Gaster arches his bonebrow. “Oh? That sounds fun. Whatever for?”

Sans opens his mouth, flashes Grillby a hesitant look, and then says, “Er—just to walk around, get out of the house. We were goin’ a little stir-crazy.”

“And,” Fuku adds, “we all got nice cream.”

“Nice cream! Without me?”

“We’ll remember to get you some next time,” Fuku assures him. “I bet Papa could make you some, if you really want it.”

“No, no, Papa’s done more than enough already.” Gaster stands, still cuddling Papyrus close and nuzzling against his skull. “I think it’s time for him to relax. _Speaking_ of which, munchkins, Ipera will be picking you up soon, so go get ready.”

As Sans and Fuku rush to gather their things, Grillby helps pack a bag of spare clothes, snacks, crayons, coloring books, and small toys. He hands the bag off to Ipera when she arrives, and she wraps Gaster up in a rather brutal hug before offering Grillby a much more (thank the gods) mild handshake. They say their goodbyes to their children, and then Ipera whisks them off in a whirlwind of enthusiastic shouting. 

“Phew,” Gaster says, setting his hands on his hips before glancing over at Grillby, his eyes bright. “I guess we’d better get ready to go, huh?”

“Uh—yeah.” Oh, gods, he doesn’t...really want to go anywhere, but there’s no way in _hell_ he’s ruining Gaster’s night by asking to stay in. He follows Gaster upstairs, his flames wilting slightly. Just a few more hours. A few more hours, and he can rest.

...fuck, what kind of a husband is he, wishing he could simply fast-forward through his Valentine’s date with Gaster?

(A pretty awful one, he thinks.)

Once they reach the bedroom, Gaster rummages through the closet, humming cheerfully and pulling out his slacks and a purple button-up. As he begins to swap his clothes, Grillby nudges him away from the closet so he can pull out his own formalwear: slacks, a white button-up, and a pinstripe waistcoat. The clothing feels far too stiff and restricting, but at least it jars his brain into _some_ semblance of formality.

It feels like work, and if he’s working, he can’t wallow.

He dresses, tossing his clothes onto the bed—he’d usually put them away, but stars know he doesn’t have the energy for it right now. Instead of bothering with that, he shuffles over and leans his head against Gaster’s shoulder. It’s a much more comfortable decision. Gaster laughs and ruffles the flames on the back of his head. “You’re touchy today, huh? I’ll cuddle you when we get home.”

“Sounds like a deal,” Grillby murmurs.

“Hey, are you—okay? You sound tired.”

Grillby straightens up, forcing his flames to lick a little higher. “Yes, I’m alright. Sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “The kids ran me ragged today.”

Gaster giggles, leaning up to nip the tip of Grillby’s nose affectionately. “Yeah, they are a bunch of hooligans.”

“It’s your genes.”

“Guilty as charged. Now, then!” Gaster whirls away with a flourish, the heels of his leather shoes clicking neatly against the floor. He bends, scooping his own day clothes off of the floor before snagging Grillby’s from the bed, too. “We aren’t on too strict of a schedule, but we do have places to be, and—”

Something pings against the floor. For a moment, Gaster and Grillby both pause, befuddled. A small, shiny object glints on the carpet between them. Grillby recognizes it, and his flames stutter. It’s that raven. It’s that _gods-be-damned_ raven. 

Fuckity fucking _fuck._

* * *

_**option a:** Quick, pick it up before Gaster sees how clumsy and awful it looks! Then—explain? Somehow? Pass it off as something Fuku made him, maybe, or as a silly project someone at the bar egged him into making a few days ago. It’s nothing serious. It’s nothing important. Gaster doesn’t need to worry about it. (And if Gaster presses, then by the gods, Grillby is crushing the damned raven under his heel. He’s got enough to be ashamed about without Gaster seeing this ugly, botched attempt at a gift.)_

**option b:** Absolutely do not pick it up. He _knows_ Gaster. If he lunges for the raven in a blind panic, Gaster will be immediately suspicious—if he doesn’t just snag it first with his blue magic—and gods know his curiosity will drive him to nag Grillby until he sees it anyway. There’s simply no way to hide this from Gaster. The wiser thing is to lie as calmly and rationally as possible and then feel like shit about it.

* * *

Grillby’s soul lurches as the raven clatters to the floor, but he keeps himself rooted in place. 

“Huh. What’s this?” Gaster bends, scooping the little raven up and turning it over in his hands. 

Grillby’s stomach churns with his shame, and he folds his arms uncomfortably across his chest. “Nothing exciting,” he says. “Just something Belous harassed me into making. She wanted to see what kind of glasswork I could do—as you can see, the answer was _not much.”_

Gaster laughs, rubbing a thumb across the raven’s neck. “No, hey, it’s cute. A little wonky, sure, but not bad. I bet if you wanted to, you could get really good at it.”

“Yeah. Maybe. It’s not really something I’m that interested in, though.” Grillby shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. He’s not interested in...a lot of things. “Anyway, you can just throw it away, and we can go. I don’t want to be late to—er, whatever we’re doing.”

“What? No way!” Gaster hugs the raven to his chest. “We can’t throw it away. You _made_ it.”

“You’re a hoarder.”

“Then leave me to my hoarding, damn it.” He sets the raven on the bedside table, looking proudly at it. “There. Now it’ll remind me of you.”

Grillby’s chest twists uncomfortably. He rubs the heel of his hand across his sternum. “Do you have to keep it right there?”

“I mean, where else do you want it?”

He bites back on the urge to say _the trash._ That would definitely get Gaster worried. “I don’t know, somewhere less breakable? Maybe above the closet?”

“I won’t be able to see it above the closet,” Gaster says, frowning and putting his hands on his hips. “What about in the living room, on the picture shelf?”

Oh, stars, that’s even worse—out where _everyone_ can see it. “No, no no no.”

“Why not?”

“The kids might break it.”

“What, and you’re not worried about all the glass picture frames? C’mon, sparks.” Gaster sighs softly, scooping the little raven up again. “If you really don’t like it, I’ll get it rid of it. I just think it’s a nice memento, that’s all. Actually, would you mind if I took it to work? I could set it on my shelf there.”

Grillby swallows hard. “I don’t—I—”

Gaster’s eyes sharpen, suddenly, and Grillby’s soul drops. Shit. That was a hesitation too much, and now Gaster is looking distinctly suspicious. “Is something wrong?”

Grillby straightens up, clasping his hands behind his back. “No.”

Gaster’s eyes scan him up and down, and then he takes a step forward. Grillby fights the urge to step back. Gaster can be...unfortunately intense, sometimes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Come on, you’re worrying too much. You can take it to work, if you want,” Grillby says, although the thought is remarkably distasteful to him—at least it’ll get Gaster off of his back. “We really should get going, though. I don’t want to be late.”

Gaster takes a deep breath, then yields. He steps back again, and Grillby relaxes. “Alright. But hey, you’d tell me if something _was_ wrong, right?”

He looks so...hopeful, when he asks that, and Grillby feels like absolute scum.

* * *

_**option a:** “...” _

**option b:** “Of course I’d tell you.” Just...maybe not right away, not until after today, not until he’s made Gaster _happy._ “You don’t need to worry about me right now, though. Let’s go see what kind of amazing night you have planned for us, okay? I know you’ve been working hard on it, and I’m really excited to see where we’re going.”

* * *

“...” Grillby hunches his shoulders, glancing away. 

“Grillby?” Gaster’s brow furrows with concern. “Hey—hey, something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

Grillby’s eyes flick towards the ground. He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Gods, why is it so hard to just _talk_ about this? Why is it always so hard to find words when he needs them most? He balls his hands into fists, then forces them to relax again. “I’m sorry,” he manages, finally. It’s the only thing he knows for sure. 

“No, sweetheart, don’t be. It’s okay. It’s—”

“It’s _not_ okay,” Grillby says, terse and frustrated. He takes a deep breath, trying to smooth his voice out. “It’s Valentine’s Day. It’s supposed to be a happy day. I know you’re really excited about it, and I don’t want to mess that up for you. I’ll be okay, really. It’s nothing that can’t wait. Let’s just go wherever we’re going and—”

“No.”

“Wings.” He rubs his temples. “Please. I don’t want Valentine’s Day to go to shit just because of me. I _want_ to spend time with you. I _want_ to enjoy this night. I _want_ to see what kind of night you have planned for us—I know you’ve worked hard on it. Don’t let me ruin this.”

“No, you know what would ruin it, Grillby?” Gaster asks, and Grillby glances up, he has his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face. “You forcing yourself through something while you’re suffering just to make _me_ feel good. I want a partner, not a damned martyr, and you know it. Why on earth would you think I’d be happy to let you suffer?”

“It’s not suffering! Or it—it shouldn’t be,” he insists. “Being with you, doing things with you, having fun, it shouldn’t be suffering. I should be looking forward to it. I should be _happy._ I should—”

Gaster slashes a hand through the air. “Enough with the _I shoulds._ You can’t always control how you feel. You can’t expect that of yourself.”

“Yes, but the way I act on it is entirely within my control, and I don’t want to act this way. I want to act like a decent damned husband for once.”

“A decent—for _once—?_ Grillby, you’re an amazing husband!”

Grillby scowls, folding his arms across his chest. Dark, unhappy smoke trickles from the corners of his mouth. “It doesn’t feel like it. _This_ doesn’t feel like what an amazing husband feels like on Valentine’s Day. So can’t we just forget about it, just for tonight, and—”

Gaster flails his arms. “No!”

“We’re going to be late—”

“I don’t give a shit about that! I don’t want to go anywhere if you’re feeling this badly. I’ll reschedule, it’s not a big deal.”

“You spent money—”

“It’ll transfer to the next reservation.”

“You had a plan—”

“I’m adapting it.”

“You wanted—”

“I _want_ to help you stop feeling like shit.”

“Then just let me act like something _other_ than shit! Let me take you out, let me make you happy, for gods’ sake, it’s _Valentine’s Day_ and you deserve it.”

“No.” Gaster folds his arms over his chest, the stubborn bastard. “I won’t feel happy if we go out tonight while you’re feeling like this. I’ll let you spoil me some other time, if that’s what you need to feel better, but tonight we are staying home and we are _talking._ Look, the kids are gone, we have peace and quiet for the next few hours, so let’s just figure this out together.”

Grillby scowls, a hoard of unpleasant emotions boiling in his chest. “I don’t want to—I don’t—I can’t—agh!” He sparks in frustration, beginning to pace. Words twist and curl in his throat, but none of them are _right,_ none of his arguments are ever strong or clever enough to keep Gaster from carving holes through them.

...but for once, Gaster doesn’t speak. He sits down on the bed, crosses his legs, and waits in utter, _damning_ silence. 

Pressure builds in Grillby’s chest, and he flexes his fingers and claws desperately for his words. He has to say _something._ The longer this silence stretches between them, the worse he feels—the stupider, the weaker, the wronger. His flames shudder in distressed reds, and still, _still_ Gaster doesn’t offer him reprieve. He looks...sad. 

Grillby made him sad.

Fuck. Of course he did.

His pacing comes to a sharp halt, and he straightens up, clasping his arms behind his back again in a foul mimicry of parade rest. (That position, at the very least, reminds him of a time when he was more than some miserable backwater bartender.) “I’m sorry,” he says briskly. “There’s no saving tonight, is there?”

Gaster tilts his head, then stands and crosses the room. He stops behind Grillby, resting a hand against his back. “The night is fine the way it is.”

“It isn’t.”

“What makes you say so?”

“I’m upsetting you.”

Gaster leans his head against the back of Grillby’s shoulder. “...alright, well, there’s that,” he admits. “I am upset, but not about missing out on a date. I’m upset that you feel so badly about feeling badly. I’m upset that you’d rather make me happy than make yourself less miserable.”

“You deserve to be happy.”

“I know,” Gaster says, simply, “but I’d rather not take that happiness at your expense, my dear. We’ll go and have fun some other time. Right now, this is more important.”

“It really isn’t. I—”

“It is. If not to you, than to me. You won’t be making me happy if we go out tonight, not like this. You know that.”

Grillby’s shoulders feel so—so heavy. It’s an effort to keep them from sagging, especially as Gaster leans more heavily against him. “I know,” he says, his voice soft and rough. “I’m sorry. I really wanted you to be happy.”

“I know you did, sweetheart.” Gaster kisses his shoulder, then winds his arms around his waist and burrows against his back. “For what it’s worth, you did your part. Those desserts, they were wonderful. They made me very, very happy. Tonight’s date was supposed to be _me_ making _you_ happy.”

“It was supposed to be about making _us_ happy.”

“And it will make us just as happy some other time,” Gaster says firmly. “I should have checked to see how you were feeling before I made plans.”

“You made these plans _weeks_ ago, Wings. I was feeling perfectly fine weeks ago.”

“What changed?”

Grillby shrugs helplessly.

“Nothing happened?” Gaster presses. “Nothing caused you to feel this way? No memories? No unpleasant anniversaries I don’t know about? No bad dreams, no stressful situations?”

“I—I guess I did have a weird dream last night.” He rubs the back of his head, flickering a frown. “I don’t remember it.”

“But it made you feel bad?”

“I woke up feeling badly, yes.”

Gaster rubs his cheek against Grillby’s shoulder, humming sympathetically. “My poor boy,” he murmurs. Something sharp and unpleasant yanks in Grillby’s chest again. “You’ve been feeling bad all day?”

“I mean, not _bad_ bad, just—I don’t know. I’m wallowing.”

“It’s okay to feel bad.”

“I don’t want to.”

Gaster laughs quietly, squeezing him. “I’d imagine not. I’m sorry you have to go through this, but things are gonna be okay, you know?”

“Yeah. I know. I just wish I didn’t have to wait. There’s no _point_ to feeling badly right now, no rhyme or reason, no sense, no advantage. It just ruins an entire day for nothing.”

“Was the whole day bad? Not even a little good part?”

Grillby thinks for a moment. “I suppose—I suppose getting nice cream with the children was good.”

“And seeing Belous, was that fun?”

“What?”

“Belous?” Gaster peers up at him. “You know? When you made the little raven?”

Guilt sears in his throat, burns along his shoulders in flickers of shameful yellow, and he swallows rapidly. “I—that wasn’t today.”

“Oh? Really? You just left it in your pocket, then?” It isn’t an accusation—it sounds like Gaster is genuinely trying to believe him. 

Grillby opens his mouth, but his words falter again. 

“...Grillby?” Gaster nudges gently into the crook of his neck. 

He can’t say anything. He can’t tell Gaster the truth, but chasing this lie seems utterly futile—moreover, both options make him feel like _shit._ His hands curl into fists again, black smoke trickling between his teeth. The silence stretches, taut and painful.

“Hey,” Gaster says, after a moment. “It’s okay. We have time.”

They have far, far too much time—especially when Gaster has decided to be _patient,_ of all things. That patience is more threatening than anything else. Grillby yearns to begin pacing again, but Gaster’s arms are snug around him, and he dares not struggle away. Instead, he stands stiff and unyielding and wretched, and Gaster?

...Gaster begins to hum a lullaby, soft and slow and sleepy. 

It soothes the silence just enough to make Grillby feel like it’s not tearing him apart. 

Gaster pulls, and Grillby allows himself to be guided backwards, onto the bed. He sits heavily on the corner of the mattress, and Gaster drapes against his back, sharp and familiar. He wraps one arm gently around Grillby’s waist, and his other hand goes to work tracing aimless patterns across Grillby’s chest and collarbones. He loosens Grillby’s bowtie, and the sudden lack of pressure around his throat makes him feel smaller and softer and _wronger._

When he takes another breath, it hitches in his chest.

Fuck. _Fuck fuck fuck._ He clamps a hand over his mouth, forcing himself to breathe slowly and calmly. Gaster makes a soft, pained sound and burrows against his neck. “Grillby,” he says. “Honey, it’s okay. It’s _okay.”_

Grillby’s eyes sting, and then there are tears rolling down his face and dripping off of his jaw to sizzle on the blankets and he is a wretched, miserable, stupid bastard with an aching soul and a head full of warped glass. Gaster croons softly at him, hugging him more tightly. 

“It’s alright,” he whispers. “It’s alright, you can cry, you can be sad. You don’t have to be strong right now.”

That doesn’t feel at all like the truth. Gods, his chest _hurts._ He reaches up with his free hand and digs his fingers into his sternum, but Gaster gently pushes his hand away and begins rubbing soothing circles over his soul instead. It eases the ache, if only slightly. Gaster continues to murmur sweet condolences against his neck, and Grillby shudders and breathes and cries as quietly as he can. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, his voice ragged. “I’m sorry, Wings, I’m sorry I’m so sorry I’m sorry—”

“No, sweetheart, no no no. You don’t have to be sorry for this.”

“It’s supposed to be a happy day, it was supposed to be _good_ for you, it was— _”_

“It’s okay if things don’t always turn out the way they’re supposed to.”

“And I can’t do—can’t do _anything_ right, I couldn’t—”

“Hey, that’s not true.”

“—even make your Valentine’s Day present the right way, couldn’t take you on a good date, couldn’t even act like a decent goddamn _husband—”_

“Grillby! Enough,” Gaster says, his voice suddenly whiplash sharp. Grillby bares his teeth. “That’s enough. I don’t want to hear anything else like that. You are _wonderful._ We will go on an incredible date some other time, and you will make me very happy. And your Valentine’s gift was perfect—it always is.”

“Because it’s the same old thing year after year after year,” he says, his voice bitter. “The second I try to do something different, the whole day’s ruined.”

“Different?”

“The bird!” Grillby flails a hand angrily at the glass raven. “The stupid bird, I made it for you. Gods, and it’s so ugly, it’s humiliating, it’s—”

“For me?”

“Yes. Fuck. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even tried, I should have just—”

“Grillby.” Gaster takes his shoulders and rattles him gently. “Griiiiillby. I’m so—I’m so happy you thought of me. I’m so happy you even _tried_ to make me something. No, it’s not perfect. No, it’s not even _close_ to anatomically correct. It’s clumsy and awkward and obviously not an experienced attempt—”

Grillby can’t help but laugh wetly. “What happened to making me feel better? I think you’re doing it wrong.”

“—but you _tried,_ for me.” Gaster reaches around, gently cupping Grillby’s chin and pulling it around until their eyes meet. “And that makes me really, really happy, Grillbz. _Thank_ you. I know you aren’t comfortable trying new things, but it means a lot that you made an effort. You know what, though?”

Grillby rubs his eyes. “What?”

“Even if you never tried anything new, I would be _happy._ I’m happy with you this way. Yes, I like new things, I like surprises, but I know you don’t, and I knew that when I married you. I’m not asking you to change. Of course—” He cracks a grin. “I won’t complain if you want to change things up from time to time. I’m not gonna be disappointed if you don’t, though. C’mon. That’s something you’ve gotta _talk_ to me about, if it’s making you feel insecure. If it’s made this whole day bad for you—”

“No! No, no, it wasn’t just that,” Grillby insists, taking Gaster’s hands and enfolding them in his. “I like surprising you, even though I’m...not very good at it. I guess today was just a bad day for trying new things.”

“Well, you _were_ already feeling awful,” Gaster says. “You didn’t exactly get off on the right foot. You can try again some other time, okay?”

“Not with glass.”

“Not with glass if you don’t want to,” Gaster agrees. He reaches forward, pulling Grillby towards him. “Now, c’mere. Let me hold you, big guy. You need it.”

Grillby curls up against Gaster’s chest, and Gaster strokes a hand soothingly over his head and down his back. He unbuttons Grillby’s waistcoat, and this time the lack of pressure isn’t quite as terrifying. He rolls his shoulders and presses his cheek to Gaster’s chest, feeling the low thrum of his soul. Tears stick to his face, and he takes a deep, wobbly breath.

He still feels bad. There’s no getting around that—it’s the sort of deep, achey bad a single conversation won’t fix. It is, however, the sort of bad that’s easier to bear in the presence of another. So, with his husband’s comfort close at hand, Grillby finally, finally lets his soul hurt and feels absolutely, completely, entirely _bad—_

But he also feels loved, and that makes just about any bad easier to bear.


End file.
